Book II

The broils that from Metellus date,

The secret springs, the dark intrigues,

The freaks of Fortune, and the great

Confederate in disastrous leagues,

And arms with uncleansed slaughter red,

A work of danger and distrust,

You treat, as one on fire should tread,

Scarce hid by treacherous ashen crust.

Let Tragedy's stern muse be mute

Awhile; and when your order'd page

Has told Rome's tale, that buskin'd foot

Again shall mount the Attic stage,

Pollio, the pale defendant's shield,

In deep debate the senate's stay,

The hero of Dalmatic field

By Triumph crown'd with deathless bay.

E'en now with trumpet's threatening blare

You thrill our ears; the clarion brays;

The lightnings of the armour scare

The steed, and daunt the rider's gaze.

Methinks I hear of leaders proud

With no uncomely dust distain'd,

And all the world by conquest bow'd,

And only Cato's soul unchain'd.

Yes, Juno and the powers on high

That left their Afric to its doom,

Have led the victors' progeny

As victims to Jugurtha's tomb.

What field, by Latian blood-drops fed,

Proclaims not the unnatural deeds

It buries, and the earthquake dread

Whose distant thunder shook the Medes?

What gulf, what river has not seen

Those sights of sorrow? nay, what sea

Has Daunian carnage yet left green?

What coast from Roman blood is free?

But pause, gay Muse, nor leave your play

Another Cean dirge to sing;

With me to Venus' bower away,

And there attune a lighter string.

The silver, Sallust, shows not fair

While buried in the greedy mine:

You love it not till moderate wear

Have given it shine.

Honour to Proculeius! he

To brethren play'd a father's part;

Fame shall embalm through years to be

That noble heart.

Who curbs a greedy soul may boast

More power than if his broad-based throne

Bridged Libya's sea, and either coast

Were all his own.

Indulgence bids the dropsy grow;

Who fain would quench the palate's flame

Must rescue from the watery foe

The pale weak frame.

Phraates, throned where Cyrus sate,

May count for blest with vulgar herds,

But not with Virtue; soon or late

From lying words

She weans men's lips; for him she keeps

The crown, the purple, and the bays,

Who dares to look on treasure-heaps

With unblench'd gaze.

An equal mind, when storms o'ercloud,

Maintain, nor 'neath a brighter sky

Let pleasure make your heart too proud,

O Dellius, Dellius! sure to die,

Whether in gloom you spend each year,

Or through long holydays at ease

In grassy nook your spirit cheer

With old Falernian vintages,

Where poplar pale, and pine-tree high

Their hospitable shadows spread

Entwined, and panting waters try

To hurry down their zigzag bed.

Bring wine and scents, and roses' bloom,

Too brief, alas! to that sweet place,

While life, and fortune, and the loom

Of the Three Sisters yield you grace.

Soon must you leave the woods you buy,

Your villa, wash'd by Tiber's flow,

Leave,--and your treasures, heap'd so high,

Your reckless heir will level low.

Whether from Argos' founder born

In wealth you lived beneath the sun,

Or nursed in beggary and scorn,

You fall to Death, who pities none.

One way all travel; the dark urn

Shakes each man's lot, that soon or late

Will force him, hopeless of return,

On board the exile-ship of Fate.

Why, Xanthias, blush to own you love

Your slave? Briseis, long ago,

A captive, could Achilles move

With breast of snow.

Tecmessa's charms enslaved her lord,

Stout Ajax, heir of Telamon;

Atrides, in his pride, adored

The maid he won,

When Troy to Thessaly gave way,

And Hector's all too quick decease

Made Pergamus an easier prey

To wearied Greece.

What if, as auburn Phyllis' mate,

You graft yourself on regal stem?

Oh yes! be sure her sires were great;

She weeps for THEM.

Believe me, from no rascal scum

Your charmer sprang; so true a flame,

Such hate of greed, could never come

From vulgar dame.

With honest fervour I commend

Those lips, those eyes; you need not fear

A rival, hurrying on to end

His fortieth year.

duties of a partner, nor can she support the weight of the bull impetuously rushing to enjoyment. Your heifer's sole inclination is about verdant fields, one while in running streams soothing the grievous heat; at another, highly delighted to frisk with the steerlings in the moist willow ground. Suppress your appetite for the immature grape; shortly variegated autumn will tinge for thee the lirid clusters with a purple hue. Shortly she shall follow you; for her impetuous time runs on, and shall place to her account those years of which it abridges you; shortly Lalage with a wanton assurance will seek a husband, beloved in a higher degree than the coy Pholoe, or even Chloris; shining as brightly with her fair shoulder, as the spotless moon upon the midnight sea, or even the Gnidian Gyges, whom if you should intermix in a company of girls, the undiscernible difference occasioned by his flowing locks and doubtful countenance would wonderfully impose even on sagacious strangers.

Septimius, who with me would brave

Far Gades, and Cantabrian land

Untamed by Home, and Moorish wave

That whirls the sand;

Fair Tibur, town of Argive kings,

There would I end my days serene,

At rest from seas and travellings,

And service seen.

Should angry Fate those wishes foil,

Then let me seek Galesus, sweet

To skin-clad sheep, and that rich soil,

The Spartan's seat.

O, what can match the green recess,

Whose honey not to Hybla yields,

Whose olives vie with those that bless

Venafrum's fields?

Long springs, mild winters glad that spot

By Jove's good grace, and Aulon, dear

To fruitful Bacchus, envies not

Falernian cheer.

That spot, those happy heights desire

Our sojourn; there, when life shall end,

Your tear shall dew my yet warm pyre,

Your bard and friend.

O, Oft with me in troublous time

Involved, when Brutus warr'd in Greece,

Who gives you back to your own clime

And your own gods, a man of peace,

Pompey, the earliest friend I knew,

With whom I oft cut short the hours

With wine, my hair bright bathed in dew

Of Syrian oils, and wreathed with flowers?

With you I shared Philippi's rout,

Unseemly parted from my shield,

When Valour fell, and warriors stout

Were tumbled on the inglorious field:

But I was saved by Mercury,

Wrapp'd in thick mist, yet trembling sore,

While you to that tempestuous sea

Were swept by battle's tide once more.

Come, pay to Jove the feast you owe;

Lay down those limbs, with warfare spent,

Beneath my laurel; nor be slow

To drain my cask; for you 'twas meant.

Lethe's true draught is Massic wine;

Fill high the goblet; pour out free

Rich streams of unguent. Who will twine

The hasty wreath from myrtle-tree

Or parsley? Whom will Venus seat

Chairman of cups? Are Bacchants sane?

Then I'll be sober. O, 'tis sweet

To fool, when friends come home again!

Had chastisement for perjured truth,

Barine, mark'd you with a curse--

Did one wry nail, or one black tooth,

But make you worse--

I'd trust you; but, when plighted lies

Have pledged you deepest, lovelier far

You sparkle forth, of all young eyes

The ruling star.

'Tis gain to mock your mother's bones,

And night's still signs, and all the sky,

And gods, that on their glorious thrones

Chill Death defy.

Ay, Venus smiles; the pure nymphs smile,

And Cupid, tyrant-lord of hearts,

Sharpening on bloody stone the while

His fiery darts.

New captives fill the nets you weave;

New slaves are bred; and those before,

Though oft they threaten, never leave

Your godless door.

The mother dreads you for her son,

The thrifty sire, the new-wed bride,

Lest, lured by you, her precious one

Should leave her side.

The rain, it rains not every day

On the soak'd meads; the Caspian main

Not always feels the unequal sway

Of storms, nor on Armenia's plain,

Dear Valgius, lies the cold dull snow

Through all the year; nor northwinds keen

Upon Garganian oakwoods blow,

And strip the ashes of their green.

You still with tearful tones pursue

Your lost, lost Mystes; Hesper sees

Your passion when he brings the dew,

And when before the sun he flees.

Yet not for loved Antilochus

Grey Nestor wasted all his years

In grief; nor o'er young Troilus

His parents' and his sisters' tears

For ever flow'd. At length have done

With these soft sorrows; rather tell

Of Caesar's trophies newly won,

And hoar Niphates' icy fell,

And Medus' flood, 'mid conquer'd tribes

Rolling a less presumptuous tide,

And Scythians taught, as Rome prescribes,

Henceforth o'er narrower steppes to ride.

Licinius, trust a seaman's lore:

Steer not too boldly to the deep,

Nor, fearing storms, by treacherous shore

Too closely creep.

Who makes the golden mean his guide,

Shuns miser's cabin, foul and dark,

Shuns gilded roofs, where pomp and pride

Are envy's mark.

With fiercer blasts the pine's dim height

Is rock'd; proud towers with heavier fall

Crash to the ground; and thunders smite

The mountains tall.

In sadness hope, in gladness fear

'Gainst coming change will fortify

Your breast. The storms that Jupiter

Sweeps o'er the sky

He chases. Why should rain to-day

Bring rain to-morrow? Python's foe

Is pleased sometimes his lyre to play,

Nor bends his bow.

Be brave in trouble; meet distress

With dauntless front; but when the gale

Too prosperous blows, be wise no less,

And shorten sail.

O, Ask not what those sons of war,

Cantabrian, Scythian, each intend,

Disjoin'd from us by Hadria's bar,

Nor puzzle, Quintius, how to spend

A life so simple. Youth removes,

And Beauty too; and hoar Decay

Drives out the wanton tribe of Loves

And Sleep, that came or night or day.

The sweet spring-flowers not always keep

Their bloom, nor moonlight shines the same

Each evening. Why with thoughts too deep

O'ertask a mind of mortal frame?

Why not, just thrown at careless ease

'Neath plane or pine, our locks of grey

Perfumed with Syrian essences

And wreathed with roses, while we may,

Lie drinking? Bacchus puts to shame

The cares that waste us. Where's the slave

To quench the fierce Falernian's flame

With water from the passing wave?

Who'll coax coy Lyde from her home?

Go, bid her take her ivory lyre,

The runaway, and haste to come,

Her wild hair bound with Spartan tire.

The weary war where fierce Numantia bled,

Fell Hannibal, the swoln Sicilian main

Purpled with Punic blood--not mine to wed

These to the lyre's soft strain,

Nor cruel Lapithae, nor, mad with wine,

Centaurs, nor, by Herculean arm o'ercome,

The earth-born youth, whose terrors dimm'd the shine

Of the resplendent dome

Of ancient Saturn. You, Maecenas, best

In pictured prose of Caesar's warrior feats

Will tell, and captive kings with haughty crest

Led through the Roman streets.

On me the Muse has laid her charge to tell

Of your Licymnia's voice, the lustrous hue

Of her bright eye, her heart that beats so well

To mutual passion true:

How nought she does but lends her added grace,

Whether she dance, or join in bantering play,

Or with soft arms the maiden choir embrace

On great Diana's day.

Say, would you change for all the wealth possest

By rich Achaemenes or Phrygia's heir,

Or the full stores of Araby the blest,

One lock of her dear hair,

While to your burning lips she bends her neck,

Or with kind cruelty denies the due

She means you not to beg for, but to take,

Or snatches it from you?

Black day he chose for planting thee,

Accurst he rear'd thee from the ground,

The bane of children yet to be,

The scandal of the village round.

His father's throat the monster press'd

Beside, and on his hearthstone spilt,

I ween, the blood of midnight guest;

Black Colchian drugs, whate'er of guilt

Is hatch'd on earth, he dealt in all--

Who planted in my rural stead

Thee, fatal wood, thee, sure to fall

Upon thy blameless master's head.

The dangers of the hour! no thought

We give them; Punic seaman's fear

Is all of Bosporus, nor aught

Recks he of pitfalls otherwhere;

The soldier fears the mask'd retreat

Of Parthia; Parthia dreads the thrall

Of Rome; but Death with noiseless feet

Has stolen and will steal on all.

How near dark Pluto's court I stood,

And AEacus' judicial throne,

The blest seclusion of the good,

And Sappho, with sweet lyric moan

Bewailing her ungentle sex,

And thee, Alcaeus, louder far

Chanting thy tale of woful wrecks,

Of woful exile, woful war!

In sacred awe the silent dead

Attend on each: but when the song

Of combat tells and tyrants fled,

Keen ears, press'd shoulders, closer throng.

What marvel, when at those sweet airs

The hundred-headed beast spell-bound

Each black ear droops, and Furies' hairs

Uncoil their serpents at the sound?

Prometheus too and Pelops' sire

In listening lose the sense of woe;

Orion hearkens to the lyre,

And lets the lynx and lion go.

Ah, Postumus! they fleet away,

Our years, nor piety one hour

Can win from wrinkles and decay,

And Death's indomitable power;

Not though three hundred bullocks flame

Each year, to soothe the tearless king

Who holds huge Geryon's triple frame

And Tityos in his watery ring,

That circling flood, which all must stem,

Who eat the fruits that Nature yields,

Wearers of haughtiest diadem,

Or humblest tillers of the fields.

In vain we shun war's contact red

Or storm-tost spray of Hadrian main:

In vain, the season through, we dread

For our frail lives Scirocco's bane.

Cocytus' black and stagnant ooze

Must welcome you, and Danaus' seed

Ill-famed, and ancient Sisyphus

To never-ending toil decreed.

Your land, your house, your lovely bride

Must lose you; of your cherish'd trees

None to its fleeting master's side

Will cleave, but those sad cypresses.

Your heir, a larger soul, will drain

The hundred-padlock'd Caecuban,

And richer spilth the pavement stain

Than e'er at pontiff's supper ran.

Few roods of ground the piles we raise

Will leave to plough; ponds wider spread

Than Lucrine lake will meet the gaze

On every side; the plane unwed

Will top the elm; the violet-bed,

The myrtle, each delicious sweet,

On olive-grounds their scent will shed,

Where once were fruit-trees yielding meat;

Thick bays will screen the midday range

Of fiercest suns. Not such the rule

Of Romulus, and Cato sage,

And all the bearded, good old school.

Each Roman's wealth was little worth,

His country's much; no colonnade

For private pleasance wooed the North

With cool "prolixity of shade."

None might the casual sod disdain

To roof his home; a town alone,

At public charge, a sacred fane

Were honour'd with the pomp of stone.

For ease, in wide Aegean caught,

The sailor prays, when clouds are hiding

The moon, nor shines of starlight aught

For seaman's guiding:

For ease the Mede, with quiver gay:

For ease rude Thrace, in battle cruel:

Can purple buy it, Grosphus? Nay,

Nor gold, nor jewel.

No pomp, no lictor clears the way

'Mid rabble-routs of troublous feelings,

Nor quells the cares that sport and play

Round gilded ceilings.

More happy he whose modest board

His father's well-worn silver brightens;

No fear, nor lust for sordid hoard,

His light sleep frightens.

Why bend our bows of little span?

Why change our homes for regions under

Another sun? What exiled man

From self can sunder?

Care climbs the bark, and trims the sail,

Curst fiend! nor troops of horse can 'scape her,

More swift than stag, more swift than gale

That drives the vapour.

Blest in the present, look not forth

On ills beyond, but soothe each bitter

With slow, calm smile. No suns on earth

Unclouded glitter.

Achilles' light was quench'd at noon;

A long decay Tithonus minish'd;

My hours, it may be, yet will run

When yours are finish'd.

For you Sicilian heifers low,

Bleat countless flocks; for you are neighing

Proud coursers; Afric purples glow

For your arraying

With double dyes; a small domain,

The soul that breathed in Grecian harping,

My portion these; and high disdain

Of ribald carping.

Why rend my heart with that sad sigh?

It cannot please the gods or me

That you, Maecenas, first should die,

My pillar of prosperity.

Ah! should I lose one half my soul

Untimely, can the other stay

Behind it? Life that is not whole,

Is THAT as sweet? The self-same day

Shall crush us twain; no idle oath

Has Horace sworn; whene'er you go,

We both will travel, travel both

The last dark journey down below.

No, not Chimaera's fiery breath,

Nor Gyas, could he rise again,

Shall part us; Justice, strong as death,

So wills it; so the Fates ordain.

Whether 'twas Libra saw me born

Or angry Scorpio, lord malign

Of natal hour, or Capricorn,

The tyrant of the western brine,

Our planets sure with concord strange

Are blended. You by Jove's blest power

Were snatch'd from out the baleful range

Of Saturn, and the evil hour

Was stay'd, when rapturous benches full

Three times the auspicious thunder peal'd;

Me the curst trunk, that smote my skull,

Had slain; but Faunus, strong to shield

The friends of Mercury, check'd the blow

In mid descent. Be sure to pay

The victims and the fane you owe;

Your bard a humbler lamb will slay.

Carven ivory have I none;

No golden cornice in my dwelling shines;

Pillars choice of Libyan stone

Upbear no architrave from Attic mines;

'Twas not mine to enter in

To Attalus' broad realms, an unknown heir,

Nor for me fair clients spin

Laconian purples for their patron's wear.

Truth is mine, and Genius mine;

The rich man comes, and knocks at my low door:

Favour'd thus, I ne'er repine,

Nor weary out indulgent Heaven for more:

In my Sabine homestead blest,

Why should I further tax a generous friend?

Suns are hurrying suns a-west,

And newborn moons make speed to meet their end.

You have hands to square and hew

Vast marble-blocks, hard on your day of doom,

Ever building mansions new,

Nor thinking of the mansion of the tomb.

Now you press on ocean's bound,

Where waves on Baiae beat, as earth were scant;

Now absorb your neighbour's ground,

And tear his landmarks up, your own to plant.

Hedges set round clients' farms

Your avarice tramples; see, the outcasts fly,

Wife and husband, in their arms

Their fathers' gods, their squalid family.

Yet no hall that wealth e'er plann'd

Waits you more surely than the wider room

Traced by Death's yet greedier hand.

Why strain so far? you cannot leap the tomb.

Earth removes the impartial sod

Alike for beggar and for monarch's child:

Nor the slave of Hell's dark god

Convey'd Prometheus back, with bribe beguiled.

Pelops he and Pelops' sire

Holds, spite of pride, in close captivity;

Beggars, who of labour tire,

Call'd or uncall'd, he hears and sets them free.

Bacchus I saw in mountain glades

Retired (believe it, after years!)

Teaching his strains to Dryad maids,

While goat-hoof'd satyrs prick'd their ears.

Evoe! my eyes with terror glare;

My heart is revelling with the god;

'Tis madness! Evoe! spare, O spare,

Dread wielder of the ivied rod!

Yes, I may sing the Thyiad crew,

The stream of wine, the sparkling rills

That run with milk, and honey-dew

That from the hollow trunk distils;

And I may sing thy consort's crown,

New set in heaven, and Pentheus' hall

With ruthless ruin thundering down,

And proud Lycurgus' funeral.

Thou turn'st the rivers, thou the sea;

Thou, on far summits, moist with wine,

Thy Bacchants' tresses harmlessly

Dost knot with living serpent-twine.

Thou, when the giants, threatening wrack,

Were clambering up Jove's citadel,

Didst hurl o'erweening Rhoetus back,

In tooth and claw a lion fell.

Who knew thy feats in dance and play

Deem'd thee belike for war's rough game

Unmeet: but peace and battle-fray

Found thee, their centre, still the same.

Grim Cerberus wagg'd his tail to see

Thy golden horn, nor dream'd of wrong,

But gently fawning, follow'd thee,

And lick'd thy feet with triple tongue.

No vulgar wing, nor weakly plied,

Shall bear me through the liquid sky;

A two-form'd bard, no more to bide

Within the range of envy's eye

'Mid haunts of men. I, all ungraced

By gentle blood, I, whom you call

Your friend, Maecenas, shall not taste

Of death, nor chafe in Lethe's thrall.

E'en now a rougher skin expands

Along my legs: above I change

To a white bird; and o'er my hands

And shoulders grows a plumage strange:

Fleeter than Icarus, see me float

O'er Bosporus, singing as I go,

And o'er Gastulian sands remote,

And Hyperborean fields of snow;

By Dacian horde, that masks its fear

Of Marsic steel, shall I be known,

And furthest Scythian: Spain shall hear

My warbling, and the banks of Rhone.

No dirges for my fancied death;

No weak lament, no mournful stave;

All clamorous grief were waste of breath,

And vain the tribute of o grave.